


On the Street Where You Live

by muttthecowcat22



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Fluff, M/M, Mr. Morton AU, Neighbors, St. Petersburg, Valentine's Day, bigbangonice2018, sort of :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 02:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13672068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muttthecowcat22/pseuds/muttthecowcat22
Summary: Victor returns to St. Petersburg, trying to settle back into life after Yuuri Katsuki swept him off his feet at the GPF banquet . . . that is, until a new tenant moves into the building across the street from his apartment.  Maybe he’s projecting his greatest hopes and desires onto a matter of circumstance, but from Victor’s side of the street, his new neighbor’s dark hair and muscular legs remind him so much of Yuuri.Loosely based on "The Tale of Mr. Morton" fromSchoolhouse Rock.





	1. I have often walked down this street before

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first big bang that I have ever participated in, and it has been such a wonderful experience! I want to give a shout out to everyone in the bboi discord server! Thank you all so much for being so kind and encouraging!
> 
> I had the privilege of working with two amazing artists that created beautiful artwork for this fic:  
> [Faerie--kei](https://faerie--kei.tumblr.com/) (Ch. 1)  
> [Valiantmeasures](http://valiantmeasures.tumblr.com/) (Ch. 3)  
> Thank you both so much!! Everyone should definitely check out their other artwork!
> 
> Work title and chapter titles are from _My Fair Lady_ by Lerner and Loewe.
> 
> Based on my favorite song from Schoolhouse Rock:  
>  _Mr. Victor walked down the street._  
>  _Mr. Victor walked._  
>  _Mr. Victor talked to his dog. ___  
>  _Mr. Victor talked. ___  
>  _Mr. Victor was a lonely man. ___  
>  _Mr. Victor was._  
>  _Mr. Victor is the subject of the sentence,_  
>  _And what the predicate says he does._  
>  In this case, the predicate says _Yuuri_.

It rained that day.  It should have been snowing.

_It’s definitely cold enough,_ Victor thought, as he took shelter under the few trees in the park near the Winter Palace on his walk home.  He shivered as a raindrop slid down his forehead.

He had failed to bring an umbrella to the rink that day, and Yakov had sent him home early.

Sent home early, in the rain, on the last day before his week-long vacation.

It was preposterous.

Yakov had said that Victor needed to rest, that his programs were solidified, that he was getting too old not to allow his joints to heal for a few days after nationals ended.

What was Victor supposed to do for a week if he couldn’t skate?

Another cold raindrop fell into the part in his hair from the leafless branch above him.  He ran his gloves over his head to brush it off, glimpsing the thick, gray clouds covering the sky as he did so. The rain would not be letting up anytime soon.

His coat and shoes completely soaked through as he covered the last few blocks to his apartment building.  He shivered as he unlocked his door, hands numb and bone cold.

Makkachin greeted him with a few low woofs and a lick to the hand, but the remainder of his apartment felt just as cold as the streets.  The chilled air seemed to catch in the spacious gaps between his leather furniture.  He dialed the thermostat up a few degrees as he removed his coat, shivering all the while and groaning internally when he realized that he had forgotten to pick up lunch on his way home. 

Walking back out into the rain was definitely not an option.  He began pulling ingredients from his kitchen to scavenge a simple beef stroganoff.  He might as well splurge on his diet, at least for one or two days – out of an entire week.  He sighed.  He really didn’t know how he was going to survive for that long.

Makkachin watched patiently as he chopped the onions, her ears pricking up when they hit the pan, sizzling with the mushrooms.  The heat from the stove slowly spread through the kitchen, and the steam warmed Victor’s hands and nose.

Rain continued to pelt the small round window above the kitchen sink and the larger window next to the table.  Victor watched some of the traffic buzz across the pavement as he rinsed a knife.

A warm light flickered on in the building across the street.  The window it shone through was small and encased by brick, the rain glimmering around its edges, close enough that Victor could somewhat see into the room that it enclosed.

The walls of the room extended not much further beyond the edges of the window, visibly cramping the room into a small rectangular shape.  The metal posts on a small bed were visible, peeking over the window seal.

It was all familiar to Victor.  After years of living in the same building, he knew the room better than most of its occupants.  The small apartment normally held a constant influx and outflux of university students. Victor would stumble upon rare glimpses of them sometimes while he cooked or ate at the table.

It had been dark for months, though, no one living in the apartment recently, so it was nice to see a light on again, at least.

The poor soul moving into the apartment that day appeared in front of the window, wearing what Victor assumed was a large, bright blue coat and a matching hat.  Another student probably. He looked a bit like a giant electric blueberry until he peeled off the hat to reveal a shock of thick, dark hair.

Just like Yuuri Katsuki’s hair.

After more than a month, Victor could still feel the texture of Yuuri Katsuki’s hair beneath his fingers.  He had brushed Yuuri’s thick, dark hair out of his eyes as they reflected all the lights above them. Victor could still clearly see the expression in them as they had danced together, could still feel the weight of Yuuri’s hands.

A puff of smoke hit Victor in the face, causing his own eyes to water.  He looked down to find his mushrooms and onions completely burnt and immediately jerked the pan off the burner with a start. Makkachin sneezed just before the smoke detector alarmed.

As he fanned the detector above the table, Victor noticed that the student across the street had pulled the curtains, leaving only the gray rain and Makkachin to console him over his burnt meal and impending vacation.

♥️

Victor curled into his bed with Makkachin.  He finally felt warm after taking a scalding hot shower.  The rain pattered against the window as he snuggled deeper into his large white comforter and Makkachin’s curls.  The light from the window across the street shone through the blinds that he had yet to draw.  Seeing that light in the window felt comforting, for some reason, when it was cold and raining outside.

From his pillow, Victor could see into the kitchen of the small apartment – dark walls and green cabinets, all sparkling through the rain, familiar, except for the dark silhouette of the student standing just at the edge of the window.  Without a coat, the student appeared much slimmer than he had before.  He stood with his back towards Victor again, apparently cooking or washing dishes.

Victor looked down towards Makkachin, already asleep on top of the comforter.  His thoughts wandered, even as he tried to calm them.   

It had been a month.  Victor had been waiting a month.  He hadn’t heard from Yuuri, not at all, nothing.  He had hoped for something, anything, after his nationals win, but nothing. Nothing.  Nothing.  It hurt a little.  He’d be lying if he said it didn’t, if only because he’d thought that he wouldn’t be quite so – whatever he was – bored?  Probably – after that night.

Many times, he had considered contacting Yuuri himself, only to change his mind each time he pulled up Yuuri’s social media to find it still hadn’t updated since November.  Yuuri had apparently returned to Japan from Detroit, disappearing after nationals.

Victor wanted another chance, just one more chance to actually see Yuuri again. 

The student across the street looked so much like him from a distance.  He wondered what would his life be like if Yuuri actually lived beside him.

Victor imagined himself cramped into the apartment across the street, sitting at the small table that must be in that kitchen and watching Yuuri cook.  And, he imagined that Yuuri asked him to help chop the vegetables and that he smiled at Victor over his shoulder.  And that they were happy despite their limited living situation.  And that Yuuri sang while he cooked, his light, flowing voice lulling Victor to sleep.

**♥**

The rain had finally let up.

Victor sat at the glass top table in his kitchen.  And sat.  And sat. The sun had just risen, but he still shivered beneath a blanket.

He watched the traffic on the street while he drank his tea, the cars interspersed with buses, the occasional pedestrian walking a dog.  A jogger in a bright blue coat caught his eye, visible puffs of breath extending in front of the man and short dark hair ruffling underneath a knit cap.

So, the student across the street had a morning exercise routine, then.  Maybe he was some sort of athlete too?

Makkachin whined from beneath the table, nudging Victor’s leg.  He needed to go for a run as well.

**♥**

Puffs of breath clouded Victor’s vision as he jogged down the sidewalk.  The air had returned to a dry, bitter cold on the streets, leaving the rain from the day before frozen on the sidewalk in dark puddles.  Victor didn’t see any sign of the blue-coated student weaving through the other pedestrians on the sidewalk.

He took Makkachin down their usual jogging path towards the park and Palace Bridge.  The ever-present gray sky stretched out above them as they crossed the bridge, and the wind whipped waves in the river. 

A bright blue color flashed between the gray and brown business rush when they finally returned to Victor’s street.  Victor quickened his pace and craned his head over the people around him until he caught a steady view of the blue jacket.  The student jogged along, bouncing slightly with each step, wisps of his dark hair peeking out from under his hat.

The student really did look like Yuuri Katsuki, at least from behind, handsome with his well-proportioned legs, evident even beneath a thick pair of sweatpants. 

Maybe . . . maybe it was time to quit waiting on Yuuri.  This gorgeous student lived just across the road from him.  He could reach out, and talk to him, maybe ask him out to the coffee shop around the corner. 

If only he could stop thinking about Yuuri, if only he wasn’t interested in this guy because he looked like Yuuri, if only he could get close enough to see his face.

Just as Victor closed enough distance between them that he could hear the student’s shoes tapping the pavement, the student abruptly turned off the street, opened the door to the brick apartment building, and disappeared from view.

Victor allowed his pace to slow and halt as he stared at the place that the blue jacket had occupied moments before.  He sighed, frustrated.  The remainder of the traffic on the sidewalk flowed around him in dull browns and grays.  Makkachin yipped at him, and he turned to cross the street towards his building and his apartment that would be cold and dark when he opened the door.

**♥**

“I have a dilemma,” Victor said from underneath a blanket on his couch.

_Well, it’s about time, chéri._ Chris’s voice flowed over the phone.

“You know Yuuri Katsuki.”

_No, I don’t know who that is at all._

“Chriiis.”

Chris’s chuckle buzzed over the line.   _Go on, Victor._

“So, I have a new neighbor.”

_Ooooo._

“He’s really cute.”

_Then, ask him out.  I don’t see how this is a dilemma._

Victor let out his third frustrated sigh of the day.  “. . . He looks just like Yuuri Katsuki.”

_Ahhh, Victor Nikiforov finally discovers that he has a type.  How interesting._

“What do I do?”

_So, Yuuri still hasn’t called you?_

Victor’s hand tightened around his phone.  “. . . No.”  He called Makkachin to the couch and began stroking the curls on her head.

_Then, I would ask Mr. Neighbor out._

“But, I only like him because he looks like Yuuri – that’s bad isn’t it?”  Victor stood up, disturbing Makkachin for the second time in less than a minute, and began pacing the floor.

_No, no – I mean what about him reminds you of Yuuri?._

“He has this beautiful, thick dark hair and muscular legs.”

_Is that it?_

“. . . Yes, that’s all I can tell from this far away.”

_Your type’s not “Yuuri” then, it’s just dark hair and legs.  That’s not so bad.  Ask him out and have fun._

“But how am I supposed to ask him out if he doesn’t even know I exist?”  Victor eyed the window across from him, dark, with the curtains staunchly pulled.

_Hmmm.  Walk up to him and ask him, maybe?_

“Chriiiiiiiiis! I would have done that already if I could,” Victor whined,  “but I never see him.  Sometimes I see the light on in his window, and one day I saw him out on a morning run, but that’s it!”

_I can’t be that hard. He literally lives beside you._ Chris paused, shuffling echoes over the line.   _Put some flowers in your window and a wreath on your door that says ‘Hey, Dark Hair and Legs, will you go out with me?’_

“Shut up, Chris,” Victor said even though he was laughing.

_You’re starting to sound like little Yura.  Ask around, someone will know his name at least.  You can start there._

“Oh – Chris – wait, wait, I’ve got to go – the light just came on.”

_What light?_

Chris never received an answer.  Victor tossed his phone onto the couch before he peered across the street.  A light glowed behind the faded white curtains concealing the brick window.  A shadow appeared briefly in the center of the window.  Victor could make out the silhouette of student’s head and angular shoulders, his arms and one of his hands.  It was the first sign of life that he had seen from the apartment in two days, apparently rising too late to catch the student’s morning run and retiring to bed before the student returned home each day.

The light from the room shone brightly into the darkened evening street once the student moved away from the window and into the room again.

**♥**

Victor surveyed his kitchen one last time.

Dirt.

Dirt everywhere.  On the floor, the counters, dusting the table, Makkachin rolling in it, her fur nearly black with soot.

Maybe buying a large bag of dirt hadn’t been such a good idea.

Or planting flowers in the winter.

Or deciding not to hire a professional landscaper to plant the flowers for him.

Victor had thought that he could handle a single flower box.  All he had ended up with was a kitchen full of dirt and three nearly dead plants hanging out his window. 

He had purchased pink hellebores – winter roses.  What he had planted resembled rotten cabbages. 

At least the dirt in the kitchen matched the smoke stain on the wall behind the stove.

A faint dusting of frost covered Victor’s hellebores outside his window.  The curtains in the familiar red brick window across the street remained staunchly pulled.  Victor eyed the dirt lining his fingernails and the creases in his palms as he began sweeping the room.  Small cuts and blisters covered his hands where the hellebores had irritated them.  Makkachin rolled onto her feet and trotted onto the carpet, trailing a dark path of dirt in her wake.

Victor just sighed.  There was nothing to do about it.  He swept and swept, for what seemed like hours, then vacuumed, then bathed Makkachin, then showered.

He heard a rather loud knock on his door as he slipped on his clothes again, his hair still slightly damp.

Had the student actually noticed?  He flung the door open.

“Victor, stop lazing around.”  Yura’s voice echoed through the small fifth floor entryway outside Victor’s door.  “Where have you been?  I had to walk all the way here to drag you back to the rink!”

“Ah, Yakov didn’t tell you?  He forced me to take the week off.”  Victor rubbed his hand over his eyes.

Yura’s eyes grew wide and green. “Really?” he asked, much more quietly. “Oh, well – uh.”  He looked around awkwardly.  “I guess I’ll go, then.”

“Wait, you can stay if you want to.” Victor opened his door wider.  “I have some burnt leftover beef stroganoff in the fridge.”

“That sounds awful.”

Victor hummed the melody of “Stammi Vicino” as he waited for his and Yura’s stroganoff to heat in the oven.

“Quit humming, Victor, you’re so annoying,” Yura said from the table near the window, eyes turned to the street outside.

“Oh, Yura, you’ll never guess.”

Yura threw Victor a tired look.

“I have a new neighbor!”

“Oh joy, what’s his name?”

“. . . well, I don’t . . . know, exactly.”

“Why not?”

“I just . . . see him – through the window.” Victor gestured to the window next to Yura.  Yura turned his head to look out the window and across the street towards the brick building.

“That’s creepy.”

“Is it really?”  Victor pulled their dinner out of the oven, steaming hot and just a little burnt.

“Yeah.” Yura arched an eyebrow as Victor set his plate in front of him.

“But he’s so cute.”

“Ugh! I do not want to hear about your old man crush.  And that makes it even creepier.”

Victor sighed and let his head fall down towards his chest.  “I suppose it is – he actually reminds me of Yuuri Katsuki.  I guess it’s just wishful thinking.”

“Huh?!  You don-“ Yura coughed, choking on his dinner, as Victor looked at him in bewilderment.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he croaked.

“Need me to pat you on your back?”

“Shut up, Victor!”

**♥**

The next few days rolled into a blur.  Every morning during his run with Makkachin, Victor searched for the blue jacket between the browns and grays of the streets without any success.  He began cooking every day, at least for lunch.  Sometimes, in the afternoon, he called Chris for a friendly chat.  Sometimes, he read a book.  Sometimes, he stared out his window and wished that he had someone to share a real vacation with.  At night, he caught glimpses of the light glowing from behind the curtains of the brick window.

**♥**

On Thursday, Victor needed to skate.  He felt restless, bored; he could only take Makkachin out for so many walks in one day, especially during the winter.  Yakov and his ridiculous rules would simply have to cave.  

He left his apartment for the rink early in the morning before anyone else would be there.  As soon as he walked past the park, he realized that he had forgotten his hat once again.  Bits of sleet absorbed into his hair, one by one.

When he finally reached the Yubileyny skating complex, ice crusting his shoulders and hair, he found the doors already unlocked and Yakov standing just inside the entrance.

“Go home, Vitya.”

“At least let me inside to dry off.”  Victor stepped in the door, dusting off his head.

Yakov walked over to the corner, then handed him an umbrella.  “Now go home,” he said.

“But. . .”

“No, Vitya.  You can take one week off. I gave you this week because I’ve taken on another skater and I thought it might be easier for him to adjust with fewer people at the rink.”

A new skater?  Yakov hadn’t said anything about that before.  The knowledge irked Victor, pricked under his skin and around the blisters on his hands.  He needed to skate, and he had just been thrown off for some other skater?

He stopped the train of thought as soon as he realised where it lead.  Victor had always enjoyed encouraging new skaters, watching them improve.  So, why did he feel so irritated?

“Do you remember what happened the last time you just kept going without a break?” Yakov continued, eyeing Victor’s cold attitude.

Victor could still clearly hear the loud pop that had issued from his leg the last time he had taken a true fall on the ice.  His shoulders sagged.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Yakov continued, “You’re not a teenager anymore.  Now go home.”   

Victor turned to go, but he hated it, all of it.  The dark apartment waiting for him loomed like some kind of sink for his entire life, the time he spent there wasted, aging him more than he already had.  He tried to straighten his back as he walked out the door, show Yakov his best front, but he couldn’t quite manage it.

On his walk home, Victor thought for a second that he saw the blue coat through the trees on the other side of the park, but the falling ice swallowed the glimpse of color too quickly for him to follow.  Makkachin was sleeping in her dog bed just to the side of the couch when he stepped in the door, the apartment silent and gray.  Not warm enough.

His hellebores outside the window had frozen completely.  The entire week, the student had not shown the least interest in Victor’s side of the street.  The ice fell thickly on the street and Victor’s flowers, concealing their remaining colors completely.

Victor didn’t like it.  He had left the rink with his shoulders sagging; he didn’t want to give up on the student across the street too. 

What else had Chris mentioned, a wreath?  There had to be something else he could do to his window. He searched through the old wooden desk in his bedroom, the only piece of furniture left over from his first apartment. He found a stack of pink craft paper and stared at it for a few moments before picking up a pair of scissors.  He cut fairly large heart out of a piece of the paper and taped it to the window in his kitchen.

If a giant pink heart wasn’t noticeable enough, he didn’t know what was.  He would give the student one last chance to notice him before trying his best to forget it all.

**♥**

Victor woke up after the sun rose, his body having finally adjusted to his new schedule on the final day of his vacation.  He stumbled into the kitchen to brew his morning cup of tea, Makkachin trailing his heels, and took his seat at the table, rubbing his eyes in the morning light.

Something was . . . different about the apartment across the street that morning.  Victor rubbed his eyes then looked again.

A fluorescent pink heart was plastered to the window opposite him.

It seemed blocky, made out of sticky notes, perhaps.  It could have been made out of Victor’s own tears and he would have still danced around the kitchen with Makkachin.

It was beautiful, the heart in the window.  There for him because the student had finally noticed him.  His heart in the window.  He checked five more times to ensure that it wouldn’t vanish.

He needed to respond somehow. 

It was late in the morning, so the student had probably already left for the day.  Victor could put his number in the window, maybe.  But, was that romantic enough?  He thought of Chris and looked down at his poor hellebores again.

Flowers were more romantic than a phone number – but not hellebores.  He needed real flowers.

**♥**

The florist seemed to be running low on patience. 

Victor had initially chosen a bouquet of deep red roses, but once he held them in his hand, he had decided that it was too much for someone that he had never met.  Roses meant love. 

He needed something . . . less passionate for the student. He was getting ahead of himself again, thinking too much about . . . things . . . Yuuri.  He would have bought red roses for Yuuri.  Had he loved Yuuri at the banquet?  He didn’t know.  He didn’t think so, but Yuuri’s roses would have been red.

The florist suggested pink roses, orange roses, yellow roses.  None of them would do.

“Do you have anything less – frilly?”  Victor asked.

“Are you sure that you want roses?”

“Yes, it has to be roses.”

She walked into another room behind the counter.

“We do have one other color,” she called, “but it’s not a true color.  We’ve let these roses soak in blue water.”  She walked into view again carrying a vase of roses sporting pale peach petals edged with royal blue.  The same bright blue as the student’s jacket.

“Those are perfect,” Victor said.

**♥**

He waited until that evening, until the light behind the curtains in the bedroom across the street glowed warm and yellow, when he knew the student would be home.  He had decided against wearing a suit – too formal – and had chosen the more casual option of a white dress shirt, slacks, and his favorite gray coat.

His shoes clacked against the pavement as he crossed the street, bouquet of blue roses in hand, and slipped into the entrance of the red brick building. 

There was no elevator in the building and no heat in the stairs, the air temperature the same as that outside.  The ceiling swept so low that Victor instinctively lowered his head as he ascended the stairs.  It reminded him of his first apartment, small and cold, before he had cut his hair or placed in a senior competition.

He finally made it to the seventh floor, the one level with his apartment, and found the door that bordered the street.  It was small and wooden, looked like it could be kicked in with a single blow.  Victor could hear movement inside, the creaking of the floorboards.

All he had to do was knock.

That would be all he had to do, to let go of Yuuri.  He would give this new man flowers, and they would talk, go out to dinner.  Maybe one day, they would dance, like he and Yuuri had danced, and he would look into this man’s eyes and never be able to forget them.

The blue roses shook in his hand.  A petal fell off and drifted to the floor.

Victor didn’t knock on the door.

He laid the bouquet on the worn brown mat at his feet and walked down the stairs, counting the click-clacks of his dress shoes as he crossed the street.  He opened his own door to find Makkachin waiting for him on the couch.

Makkachin was such a good dog.  He fell into her, hot tears leaking into her soft fur, for which he tried to apologize.

And, it didn’t make any sense.  Victor had been so happy about the heart in the window.

But, he had been happier with Yuuri.

Victor felt hot, overheated, for the first time that week.  He let Makkachin crawl out from under his head, and padded to the bathroom to take a cold shower, afterwards, opening the window in his bedroom to let in the cold air.

He fell asleep to the sound of a man singing outside in the street.  If he listened closely enough, Victor thought it almost sounded like “Stammi Vicino.”  The voice flowed, soothing, soft, and cool into the sounds of the city, the drip of melting ice on the windowsill, the tick of the clock on the wall, and washed away the blue-tinged rose petals from Victor’s eyelids, the corners of his consciousness.

**♥**

On Monday, Victor finally pushed in the doors to the rink.  He couldn’t wait to see the pure white ice, untouched before anyone else arrived to practice.

Instead, he saw a dark-haired skater launch into a beautiful, arching triple axel as soon as he rounded the corner, landing with perfect form.

 

“Good, Yuuri.”  Yakov’s voice echoed from the opposite side of the room, “Take five before everyone else arrives.”

“Yes, coach,” Yuuri Katsuki answered. He reached for his blade guards before he looked up, his deep, brown eyes locking with Victor’s.

“Victor,” Yakov called, “You’re here early.”


	2. The pavement always stayed beneath my feet before

“Yuuri – Hi.”  Victor Nikiforov smiled at Yuuri, the words flowing off his lips in the rapidly diminishing space between them.  His famous silver hair fell into one of his blue, blue eyes. 

Yuuri’s mouth fell open slightly in awe.  Victor Nikiforov was physically standing within arm’s reach, smiling at him.  At Yuuri.  Yuuri smiled back.

What was happening?

Yuuri’s eyes randomly focused on just how close Victor Nikiforov was actually standing to him.  He scampered backwards, putting a little more than average space between them again, his face burning, his back hitting the boards. 

He had already ruined everything, openly staring at Victor Nikiforov.  At least things couldn’t get much worse.  Maybe.

The perfect smile dropped from Victor’s lips.  “Where are you going?”  His hand fell that had been reaching for Yuuri.

“Victor!” Coach Feltsman’s harsh call echoed through the rink. “Get on the ice, and quit distracting Katsuki.”

Victor’s blue eyes lingered on Yuuri for a few more seconds.  “Later, we’ll talk, yes?” he asked quietly, smiling again.

“Sure,” Yuuri managed before Victor turned to the ice and skated away.

Yuuri fled to the locker room and buried his head in his hands, letting his face cool and his breathing slow.    


What was happening?  Victor, who hadn’t recognized him in the slightest at the GPF, suddenly talks to him and knows his name?  It didn’t make any sense – well, never mind, it made a little sense.  Coach Feltsman had probably told Victor about him. That made a lot of sense, since they would be practicing at the same rink.

Just how Yuuri was supposed to actually practice at the same rink as Victor Nikiforov was yet to be seen.

♥

“Hey, Phichit, it’s happened.”  Yuuri rolled onto his terribly cramped bed in his terribly cramped apartment.

Phichit’s ensuing scree forced Yuuri to hold the phone away from his head.   _ Did you talk to him? Did you ask him out? _

“Ask him out?!”

_ Yeah!  Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted to do? _

“No!  I can’t ask him out.”

_ Why not? _

“He’s Victor Nikiforov!”

_ Exactly! At least tell me what he said.  I need the deets. _

“He didn’t really say anything.”

_ Huh, was he . . . rude? _

“No! No.  I, well, I might have avoided him?”  Yuuri tugged at the bottom of his sleeve.

_ Yuuri, No!   _ Yuuri thought Phichit’s voice sounded a little more horrified than called for.

“Yes?”

_ How could you possibly just avoid him if you were practicing at the same time? _

“Well . . . uh, when he walked in this morning, I ran into the locker room.  By the time I felt stable enough to walk out, Coach Feltsman was already drilling him.  After that I just always made sure that I was skating while he was off the ice.”

_ You still could have talked to him! _

“I did talk to him a little.  Uh, one time he stood just a few feet away from me.  It was just after he arrived.  And, wow, Phichit, he is so beautiful up close.”

_ Yeah, yeah.  And, you still didn’t talk to him. _

“Uh, I . . . I couldn’t.”

_ Yuuri, you know that means you ignored him, right? _

“Oh . . . no. . . no it doesn’t.  No one can ignore Victor Nikiforov!  I just, I couldn’t do it.  He – he didn’t know me at, you know, the Final.  What’s even the point of talking to him now?”  Yuuri’s hand began to shake around the phone; he shifted on the rough blanket beneath him.

_ Yuuri . . . are you okay? _

Yuuri took a few deep breaths to calm himself.  “. . .Yeah.”  It had been so much easier to explain himself to Phichit in Detroit.  His eyes focused on the crystals of the small, out of place chandelier hanging from the ceiling of his tiny bedroom.  “Yeah.  It’s just . . . getting to be like it was when I moved to Detroit, I guess.  I can’t really speak enough Russian to talk to anyone yet.  I . . . feel like I shouldn’t be here.”

_ Yeah, I know, I know, give it another week or two.  Coach Feltsman wanted you there or he wouldn’t have offered to coach you.  You adjusted to Detroit eventually, and you will there too.  _

“Yeah, I hope so.”

_ Have you made any friends yet?  What about the heart guy?  Have you tried talking to him? _

“You sound like my mom.”  Yuuri smiled a little into his phone.  “And, I don’t even know if heart guy is a guy.  I haven’t seen him.”

_ Oh come on, he has to be.  He left you roses and everything. _

“Are the roses even from the same person?”

_ Well, put your phone number in the window and find out. _

“I don’t know.  He did put another heart up in his window today.  It’s red this time, though.”

_ Okay, that’s so cute. _

“But, what about . . .”  Yuuri steeled himself.  “Victor?  It’s just – I don’t know – I’m finally close enough to talk to him and  . . . I can’t.”

_ Yuuri, there’s no need to stress about this.  It’s okay to ignore them both for a while and settle into St. Petersburg.  Okay? _

“Yeah – okay . . . How are you doing?”

Frost encroached on the sticky note heart fluttering from Yuuri’s window as Phichit described the latest snowfall in Detroit and his plans to convince Celestino to move to Bangkok in the spring.  The heating in Yuuri’s small apartment blew dust into the air off of the faded green blanket he was lying on. 

Yuuri pictured himself greeting Celestino at the rink, skating without having to worry about what the world champion thought of him.  He could still feel the smoothness of the blue comforter on his bed in their dorm room instead of the old matted blanket underneath him.  He could still see Phichit’s laugh, in addition to hearing it over the phone.

He would be happy in Detroit.     
  
Uncertainty haunted him in St. Petersburg, drained too much of his mental energy to handle seeing Victor Nikiforov every day, seeing the goal that he had failed every day.  If only he hadn’t more or less run away from Celestino after the Final. 

Yuuri fisted the green blanket between his fingers, the fibers rough and matted.  No, he couldn’t allow himself to think that way.  Coach Feltsman, arguably the best skating coach in the world, had been interested enough to take him on, after his largest failure, at that.  It had to mean something.  It had to, it had to.

_ Yuuri, are you okay?  _ Phichit asked again.

“Yeah, I’m fine.  I was just thinking.”

_ About what? _

“Just . . . uh . . Victor?”

_ You know, you could always show up for practice one day and propose to him.  If he says yes, then you can get married!  If he says no, then go after heart guy. _

And, despite it all, Yuuri found himself laughing.  “You’re so ridiculous, Phichit.”

_ It’s my job, and I take it very seriously. _

After finally ending the call with Phichit, Yuuri stared again at the sparkles in the chandelier, the light creating shadows across the boarded floor and around the wardrobe in the corner.    


One of the sticky notes peeled off the window and fluttered to the floor, leaving a small hole in the heart.  The window had completely frosted over behind it; not even the street lights shown through. 

The one poster of Victor that Yuuri had brought with him from Detroit stared sightlessly out of the wall, his light blue free skate costume from two years prior bringing out his eyes.  The roses sitting on the small desk next to the wardrobe continued to stand tall, unfading in their brilliance even after a few days.  The blue lining their edges nearly glowed.

Yuuri pulled himself off of the bed and shuffled closer to the vase.  He ran his finger along the edges of the petals.  Blue, his favorite color.  The flowers were really incredibly thoughtful.  They had been one of the few things that made Yuuri feel welcomed in St. Petersburg.

The week before, Coach Feltsman’s remarks had been excellent, but incredibly harsh.  No one else had spoken to Yuuri beyond a few words of greeting.  Yuri Plisetsky had glared at him through every practice, and Yuuri’s amateur knowledge of Russian limited his interaction with anyone outside the rink.  Mila and Georgi had been nice enough, but they had their own practice times, leaving Yuuri, for the most part, alone.    


He had been ready to go home, all the way back to Hatsetsu, after a week.

Thursday night, the heart had appeared in the window across the street.  He hadn’t truly known if it was even for him, but when he saw it, he had smiled for the first time since moving to Russia.  It had actually been fun to plaster his own heart in the window and watch for a response from the white stone building. 

He glanced at the bright pink heart again.  It wouldn’t hurt to get heart guy’s number at least.

The wooden boards creaked beneath his feet as he began rearranging the sticky notes into his phone number.   


♥   


The next morning while Yuuri dressed, his phone rang, bright and shrill.  An unknown number.

Heart guy.

_ Hello. _  For some reason the voice that answered sounded incredibly familiar.   _ Yuuri? Is that you? _

How did his neighbor know his name?  “Yes . . . do I – do I know you?”

_ Of course, it’s me, Victor.  I didn’t realize you were actually my neighbor until I showed up for practice on Monday.  _

Yuuri sat down on the bed.  No.  Victor Nikiforov and heart guy couldn’t possibly be the same person. 

He dropped the phone on the bed as if it had burned him.  Victor’s voice was still coming out of the speaker before Yuuri hung up.  Just a quick tap of the red button to hang up on Victor Nikiforov.

He stared at the phone in horror for a few seconds, jumping when it rang again, the same number.  His finger shook when he tapped the red button without even lifting the phone.

It rang a third time.

But only with a text.

_ This is Victor again.  I think our call might have dropped.  We can talk at practice today!  Yakov won’t mind, I promise. <3 _

Yuuri still did not touch his phone.  He just stared at the words on the notification.   _ Talk with Victor at practice,  _ it screamed at him.

He had to go.  He had to go to practice or Coach Feltsman would drop him.

Yuuri’s hands shook as he zipped up his large blue overcoat that he had bought specifically to wear in Russia.  It was just Victor Nikiforov, no big deal.

Just Victor Nikiforov.   


♥

Yuuri met Victor’s blue eyes as soon as he stepped into the rink.  Victor waved, his smile gorgeous.  Yuuri had never seen anything like it.  The longer Yuuri stared, the wider it grew, almost forming the shape of a heart.

Heart guy.

Heart guy was Victor.

Yuuri’s one friend in Russia had become his biggest fear in the space of an hour.

The morning light from the windows threaded through Victor’s light hair.  He looked like he was glowing.

If only Yuuri could wave back to him.

Instead, Yuuri turned and fled to the locker room as he had the day before.  He threw on his skates, tangling the laces in his rush, and nearly tripped into Georgi Popovich.  He murmured a “sorry, sorry” as he ran out the door and stepped on the ice to warm up.

“Good, Yuuri, we’ll work on your Salchow today first,” called Coach Feltsman from the boards, “now, Vitya, you see Yuuri out there  _ listening to me _ , hmm?”

Yuuri stole a glance at the silver-haired figure from the corner of his eye.  He shouldn’t have, though.  Victor had his back propped against the cinderblock wall surrounding three sides of the rink, his gaze, unmistakably directed towards the ice, towards Yuuri. 

Coach Feltsman started Yuuri on his quad Sal almost immediately.  Every time his knee bent to power his jump, Victor’s gaze weighed on him, pulling him down until he fell again and again.  On the fifth or sixth failed attempt, he landed sharp and hard on his hip with a dull thud.  He lay on the ice, heat blooming tender and pulsing beneath the palm he covered it with.

“Katsuki!” Coach Feltsman yelled from the boards. Yuuri closed his eyes and let his head rest on the ice while the pain dulled.  The scraping sound of skates approached him and slid to a stop.

He looked up, expecting to see the short form of his coach standing over him.  Instead, a long shadow stood above him, topped with silver – silver hair.

“Are you alright?” Victor asked. 

Something warm and dark brushed Yuuri’s cheek.  A hand.  Victor’s hand.  His fingers were soft and smooth, as he kneeled beside Yuuri, his bangs falling into one eye.

Victor was touching Yuuri’s cheek after he had fallen.

After he had . . . fallen.

Yuuri batted Victor’s hand away and sat up.  “I’m fine,” he said while staring at his skates. He pushed himself to his feet without looking in Victor’s direction and fled the ice, wincing each time his weight landed on his injured side.   He stepped off and fell into a fold-out chair behind the boards.  Coach Feltsman ran up to him with an ice pack.

“I’ve already called our medic team,” he said. 

“Y-You don’t have to do that.  I’m really okay.”  Yuuri hissed through his teeth when the ice pack touched his hip.

“Katsuki.” Coach Feltsman narrowed his eyes beneath his thick brow.  “Normally I don’t have a problem with you listening to me.” 

“Yes, coach.”

“They’re sending someone to check you over, but in my experience, you didn’t fall hard enough to actually break anything.”

Victor skated up behind Coach Feltsman.  He turned to Victor, who was reaching for his blade guards, and shooed him back towards the ice, asking him to begin his on-ice warmups instead. 

Victor briefly looked towards Yuuri, his face oddly blank, before gliding back onto the rink. 

“Whatever happened just then is at least something similar to what happened to your free skate at the GPF.” Coach Feltsman continued.

“I just – I –”

“Your Sal’s weren’t flawless yesterday, but they had greatly improved.”  Yuuri couldn’t keep the disbelieving grimace off his face at that. Coach Feltsman, mercifully, ignored him.  “Today, you can’t even land one. Same thing happened in Sochi.”

“It was diff—“

Coach Feltsman waved his hand through the air.  “I already know about your dog.”

Yuuri stared at him in shock.

“I asked Celestino about it,” he continued, “Look, you’re a great skater, a consistent one.  I don’t consider whatever this is to be inconsistence.  The only thing different today than yesterday is Vitya.”

Yuuri’s face suddenly felt hotter than his injured hip. 

“If you need him to leave during your ice time, then I will ask him to do so.  Just something to think about,” Coach Feltsman said, patting Yuuri’s shoulder once, before walking to the boards to coach Victor.

Yuuri watched Victor glide around the rink for a minute while the pain in his hip simmered to a dull throb.  The ghost touch of Victor’s fingers still lingered over his cheek.  He brought his own hand up to hover over the sensation.    


Yuuri knew that it wasn’t really just Victor that had caused . . . everything; it was moving and a new coach, feeling alone, the GPF, Vicchan . . .  But, Victor wasn’t making it any better.

After the medic cleared him, Yuuri slipped out of the rink while Victor continued to practice, avoiding all human interaction on his way home.  He couldn’t allow a repeat of the day to happen again.  Coach Feltsman was the top coach in the world; this was Yuuri’s one chance to really win.  He couldn’t allow himself to fail, absolutely not.

His hands shook as he fiddled with his key to let himself into the door of his apartment.  When he changed into a baggy pair of sweats, his eyes widened at the dark red and purple bruise deepening on his hip.

He called Coach Feltsman that night and requested Victor’s absence from his on-ice practices.

Heart guy or not, he didn’t need a sympathetic soul in the entire country of Russia.

He tore down his poster and peeled every sticky note off of his window.  They fluttered to the ground, littering it with bright pink and blue.

He wouldn’t allow himself to fail.   


♥   


The next day at practice, Yuuri made it his goal not to allow his nerves to fluster him.  If Victor smiled and waved at him before practice, Yuuri didn’t see it.  Coach Feltsman banned him from jumps for the day, so Yuuri focused on the other aspects of his programs instead.  Some of his spins and the transitions into them needed work.  He focused on pulling everything in tighter and faster, his hip smarting when he stretched it.  He spent his afternoon conditioning and running through ballet exercises.  He couldn’t even be phased by the younger Yuri’s glares. 

By the end of the day, he felt exhausted but accomplished.  His physical exhaustion took the edge off his nerves, and he could actually picture himself being a good enough skater to remain in Coach Feltsman’s rink.

After a short dinner at home, during which the curtains on the windows remained staunchly pulled, Yuuri returned to the rink, afterhours, to keep his anxiety at bay.    


He had exhausted his interest in his own programs for the day, so he focused on edge control and making figures for a while.  Eventually, though, his movements wandered into something else, familiar and practiced.    


It was Victor’s free skate, Yuuri realized with horror when he reached the first sit spin.  “Stay with me” it sang.  Yuuri didn’t have anyone to stay with him; he had left them all behind for skating.  He halted the program and called it a night. 

The following day, a Wednesday, Coach Feltsman allowed Yuuri to work on his jumps again.  He tried for the quad Sal so many times that he lost count, but by the end of his ice time, he could land it more often than not with near perfect form.  Coach Feltsman grunted out what Yuuri decided was a word of approval just as practice ended.  Even the younger Yuri glared less as he took his leave.  Victor . . . well, Yuuri didn’t see Victor’s reaction.  He assumed Victor had been conditioning during that time and would skate in the afternoon after Yuri.

That night, while he was eating dinner at the unsteady teal table in his small kitchen, Yuuri made the mistake of glancing out the window.  The lights in the street had begun to brighten as the daylight dimmed.  The light from the window across the street caught his eye.  Another heart had been added to it, this one red with white lace and gold glitter embellishments.  It reminded him of the three unread texts on his phone sent from a number that he still hadn’t added to his contacts.

Yuuri’s appetite all but disappeared.    


He jogged back to the rink.  Once he had warmed up, he found himself inevitably moving through Victor’s program again.  That night, however, he didn’t let himself shy away from it.  He couldn’t let skating be taken from him too.

He pulled out of the first sit spin and reached for the absent audience in the stands.  The framework of the building glowed to a deep gold in the dim lights.  The river wound pitch black through the windows, bordered by the lights from the city.    


Yuuri felt small, alone as he worked through the program that had first fascinated him months before.  The movements felt natural after using the piece for his stress relief skating for so long.  He had always copied Victor, always wanted to be like him, but also always wanted to be better than him, to face him and win.  That dream seemed more ludicrous than ever. 

Once he completed the program, he started the piece on his phone and began skating again, the music loud and grandiose, almost from a different time.  Isolating.  Shadows gathered around him as he glided backwards, hands stretched in front of him.    


Why had Victor chosen the piece for his free skate?  It didn’t make any sense unless he was just pretending, another performance.  But, the music had been composed specifically for Victor. 

Yuuri finished the program and began it again.  The music washed over him as his muscles finally began to shake with fatigue.  The consuming loneliness in its cry echoed around the dark rink at the center of the brightly lit city.  For some reason, Victor Nikiforov had skated to a program about loneliness and surprised almost no one. 

Yuuri skated off the ice, changed into normal shoes, and found a seat on one of the cold metal bleachers near the ice.  He rested his head on his fingertips, the points of contact cold and real.  His mind felt too full, as if there was a constant strain on it of white noise that he wouldn’t hear unless he acknowledged it.  He had never felt more pressure to perform in his entire skating career.  Coach Feltsman’s harsh words from his first day came to mind.

_ I’m surprised you made it this far if you can’t jump. _

So, Yuuri had jumped and jumped and fallen, fallen, fallen until he made progress.  He knew he couldn’t keep it up, though, not for much longer; the white noise would grow until he was forced to acknowledge it.  Once that happened, he would crash, his coach would probably send him home.

He hated having to fight for his place at the rink.  Skating was too stressful in itself.  And, he had no one he could tell about it.  He had already called Phichit so many times that Phichit was running out of comforting things to say.

And, heart guy.  Why did heart guy have to be Victor?  Yuuri’s goal had always been to skate with Victor.  Now, he couldn’t even look at him without hearing that noise.

“What the hell you doing here, loser!” came a yell from below the bleachers.  Yuri Plisetsky’s blond hair glowed in the warm half-lit lights.

Yuuri shrank into his shoulders.  He hadn’t thought that anyone else ever came to the rink as late as it was.  But really, any of the team could show up, even Coach Feltsman . . . or Victor.

“Nothing,” Yuuri said.

“Nothing?  That’s a lie; I saw you skating.  I’m practicing now, so you might as well go home,” Yuri planted himself on the nearest bench to change into his skates.

“I can sit here while you practice.”

“No,” he said without turning his head.

Yuuri silently waited to respond, hoping that if he was quiet enough, Yuri would simply forget about him and whatever part of Victor’s program that he had seen Yuuri skating.  Maybe he hadn’t recognized the program, since he hadn’t said anything.  Maybe he would just leave Yuuri alone, curled up in the darkness.  Yuuri couldn’t make himself return to his tiny apartment so soon, knowing Victor would be just across the street with three hearts in his window.

The other Yuri glared at him silently as he made a lap around the ice.

“Fine – if you’re going to stay, then come down here and help me practice.”

The lights gradually brightened to their full intensity as Yuuri climbed down the stands.  Yuri must have turned them all the way up when he stepped in.  Critiquing Yuri’s routine would help take Yuuri’s mind off of his real problems at least.  He had only had the chance to see small glimpses of Yuri’s skating since he had moved to Russia, always conditioning during the younger boy’s ice time.  It turned out that Yuri’s routine was flawless, every move precise, on point to the tilt of his fingers, but it came off as insincere, unimpassioned, like Yuri did not quite care enough about it.

Yuri slid to a stop, shavings splintering the air.  “So, what’d you think, loser?”

“Uh . . . I think it was good.”

“Just good?” Yuri growled.

“Well, it could have been a little more, err, believable.”

“What?” He skated towards Yuuri, ramming into the boards.

Yuuri stepped back to avoid his fury.  “Like – I didn’t get the impression that you even like the program.”

“I don’t.”

“There isn’t any aspect of the song that you remotely like?”

“No.”

“. . . Are you sure?”

“Yes.”  Yuri’s grimace grew stronger with every second, amplified by the harsh, bright lights above their heads.

Something just wasn’t adding up, though.  “Why didn’t you tell Coach Feltsman that you hate it?”

“Because he said it will make me win.”

“Okay, so you hate the music, but is there anything that it makes you feel?”

“Anger.”

So, Yuuri should have seen that one coming, but it was something to work with at least.  “Okay, so when you skate it, show the audience your anger – not anything too dramatic, but maybe some facial expressions, a little more force to your movements?”

Yuri rolled his eyes but agreed in a surprisingly docile tone. He skated to the center of the ice, and when Yuuri hit play for the second time that night, what he saw on the ice was actually entertaining.  Yuri powered through the classical piece, glaring at the world, chopping up the ice.  The loud strikes echoed through the otherwise empty rink as he landed every flawless jump.

Yuuri clapped when he finished despite the eye roll that it earned him.  “That was great, Yuri,” he called, as Yuri skated towards him, “just keep thinking like that every time you skate. This is a winning program.”

“You mean think about how angry I am with Victor.”  Yuri paused as he bent down to secure his blade guards, “and you.”  He poked Yuuri in the sternum, hard, for a brief second before turning away to find his bag.  “Would it kill you to just talk to him? He’s so annoying right now.”

“Huh?” Yuuri stared at the younger Yuri’s back, loose blond hair obscuring his face.  Yes, Yuuri had been trying not to think about Victor, but only to keep the few nerves he had left intact.  He hadn’t thought anyone else would notice, especially Yuri. 

“He just mopes around all the time.  At least say “Hi” or something,” Yuri said over his shoulder, while he removed his skates.

“I-I didn’t, uh, know?  I mean he didn’t even know who I was at the GPF.  So . . . uh?”

“What do you mean he didn’t know who you were?  You were both disgusting at the banquet!  It was embarrassing.”

“Huh?” Until that moment, Yuuri had never realized how rapidly his heart could beat, or his palms sweat, or how loud the white noise at the back of his mind could become.  “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“What do you mean?  The banquet.  You danced with everyone, including Michelle Crispino, then hung off of Victor for the rest of the night?” Yuri had turned around again to face Yuuri, his grimace more solid than ever. 

“I-I’m, just uh, was I drinking anything?”

“Uh, yeah, like a ton of champagne.”

“Oh my god.”

“Wait . . . you don’t remember?” Yuri asked.  Yuuri just stared at him as the horror of the situation finally set in.  “I can’t believe it.  Like you were really dancing and you can’t even remember it.”

“This can’t be real,” Yuuri murmured numbly falling back onto the lowest bleacher behind him.

“No one told you?”

“No.”

Yuri smiled, just slightly, the first time that Yuuri had seen him do so, like he was humoring him.  “I’ll send you the pictures.”

Yuuri looked away after the first two pictures showed himself completely wasted.  He had danced to Victor.  He could have said anything, and in front of most of the ISU. 

Suddenly, the lights felt nauseatingly bright.  Yuuri didn’t know anything anymore, but he did know he needed to leave, curl up in his bed and try to not deal with everything.

It was torture to wait for Yuri to finish packing up and switch off the lights.  As soon as they were out the door, Yuuri began walking away without another word.  The younger Yuri, all bundled up in his scarf and coat, called something after him . . . about talking to someone? Maybe?

“Y-yeah,” Yuuri answered, more to finally end the conversation than anything else.

“Okay, I’m telling him then.”

Yuuri only realized as he slipped under the covers of his bed that he should have offered to walk Yuri home.  It had been so late, and he had sent the younger boy to walk home alone.  His phone lit up in his hand one last time.   
  


**YP** : Sorry, forgot to send this one.

**YP** : [video]   
  


Yuuri figured he might as well rip off the bandage completely and hit play.  He paused it after the first five seconds.  It was a video of the program he had skated that evening.  Victor’s program.

He groaned, flopping back down on his pillow and tossing his phone onto the rug beside his bed.  He pulled the ratty green blanket towards him and buried his face in it, his tears soaking through its thin layers.

He had mourned his final score at the GPF for months.  To know that he had completely upset the banquet was unreconcilable.  He stared at the pulled curtains covering his window.  He could have said anything to anyone, done anything, and he would never know what really happened.  How was he supposed to speak to anyone who was at the banquet ever again?  Not to mention Victor.  What on earth had he said to Victor?

A loud knock issued from the front of Yuuri’s apartment, causing him to jump under his blanket.  He had ordered takeout earlier, so he dragged himself out of bed and hobbled to the door, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

He swung open the door and stared at the silver haired man standing there for a minute, no takeout boxes in sight.

“Yuuri,” the man said, softly and with a small smile on his face, “I came to say ‘hi.’”

BAM.

Yuuri slammed the door closed.

It wasn’t real.

Victor Nikiforov wasn’t standing outside his door, and it wasn’t real.

When more knocks issued from the door, he locked and double bolted it.

It couldn’t possibly be real – none of it.

He slumped to the ground with his back to the door and didn’t move until he heard steps pacing away, down the hall.  When his takeout delivery showed up, he didn’t answer and didn’t eat anything else that night.

♥

He dreamt of wispy silver hair, twinkling laughter, dancing.  Strong arms and thighs ran beneath his palms, and bright blue eyes glittered up at him under golden lights.  And, none of it made any sense, and yet it did.  It made absolutely perfect sense.  Yuuri knew he belonged there, wherever there was – definitely not St. Petersburg.

♥

Yuuri woke up with swollen eyes and a headache the next morning.  He forced himself to jog to practice, down the gray streets and past the frozen park.  They would have open ice practice that morning and conditioning for the remainder of the day, which meant that he would probably run into Victor at some point.  He tried not to think about it.

He tried not to think about anything, walking into the rink with his eyes already focused on the floor.  He decided to stay focused on the ice and his own elements as he had the past two days.  It didn’t take him long, though, to notice that something was wrong.  A heavy feeling pervaded the atmosphere.  Yuuri was pulling out of an Ina Bauer, after watching the beams of the ceiling fly past him, when he noticed it.

He took the opportunity to survey the room: Yuri practicing perfect standing splits, Mila attempting to increase the speed of her spins, Georgi working on some kind of interpretive choreography.  The distinct lack of silver hair floating around the ice was quite shocking.  Yuuri felt his stomach drop.

When their practice ended, the other skaters congregated beside the boards.  Yuuri approached them, albeit cautiously.

“So, where’s Victor?” Mila asked the question on everyone’s mind.

“Hell if I know,” the younger Yuri said.  His back faced the other skaters as he leaned over the boards,the empty ice stretching beyond him before the hockey team could mar it.

“He told me yesterday about a malady of the heart,” Georgi said, “It’s understandable that he would miss practice.”

Mila clapped Georgi on the shoulder.  “If he told  _ you _ about it, it must be pretty bad.”

“He’s an idiot if he missed practice over something that stupid.  He could be hurt, idiots.”  Yuri turned sharply, directing his glare towards Yuuri.  “Hey, loser, did you talk to him?”

Every pair of eyes in their small circle snapped immediately towards Yuuri.  He twisted his hands together to prevent them from shaking. 

“Um.” He took a deep breath. “Well . . . I –“  He was cut off by the noise of the hockey team entering the rink.  They drowned out everything else, and the skaters dispersed away from the boards, sparing Yuuri for the moment.

Yuuri tried to rationally think through the situation before he could panic.  First, he had no way of knowing the actual reason that Victor had missed practice.  Was it possible that reason had something to do with Yuuri slamming the door on his gorgeous smiling face?  Victor had probably never had the door slammed on him before.  Yuuri cringed at the thought.  But, it was also possible that it was another reason entirely.    


Surely, Victor hadn’t missed practice over Yuuri Katsuki.

Once he reached the weight room, Yuuri started out with sit ups, the repetitive motion calming.  He decided that he would call and check on Victor after practice, when he could hopefully build up enough nerve to apologize. 

He left the skating complex under a sky darkened by thick clouds and walked home on autopilot, unaware of his surroundings until he journeyed between his and Victor’s brick and stone buildings.  He trudged up the cold, close stairs slowly, reluctant to even pull level with Victor’s apartment across the street.  As soon as he stepped inside his door, he popped open a can of vegetable soup, poured it into a pot, and heated it slowly over the small green stovetop.  His phone lay forgotten on the table.

He poured his soup into the only bowl that he owned.  The back of his phone glinted in the dim solo light in the kitchen as he sipped his soup.  He would call after the next sip, or maybe the next one, or maybe after he finished the entire bowl.  But, he had to call eventually, he had promised Yuri anyway, he had to.

He wrapped his fingers around the phone without flipping it over.  Why was this so difficult?  He was just going to call Victor and check on him, it was harmless.  He was just going to call his idol, who he had slammed the door on the night before, to see if he was the reason that Victor had missed practice.

He glanced over his shoulder out the window and across the street.  The three brightly colored hearts remained in the other window there, though they appeared nearly maroon under the overcast sky.  A black line ran diagonally across one of them, the pink one, the first one.  Yuuri abandoned his phone to step closer to his own window.

A wave of nausea hit him when he realized what had happened.  The heart had been ripped in two and retaped to the window.

A broken heart.

Yuuri glanced back down at the phone in his hand.  So, he didn’t need to call after all.  It was him.  It was really him.  The realization fell around him, weighed him to the floor. He didn’t know what to do.  He had to do something.  He couldn’t just keep going to practice and ignore everything.    


He paced around the kitchen to keep himself from dissolving into stress tears.  He paced into his bedroom, around the green bed and under the chandelier.  The pink and blue roses caught his eye.  They still hadn’t wilted after a week.

Roses.

♥

When Yuuri stepped out of the florist shop down the street with a dozen red roses, raindrops pitter-pattered around him, falling out of the dark gray sky.  They rolled off the red petals blooming out of his hand and splashed against the concrete underfoot.

“A dozen red roses,” the florist had asked, “who’s the lucky girl?”  She eyed the flowers in Yuuri’s hand for a moment.  “Or guy?”

“He’s . . . uh . . . he’s just . . he’s,”  _ Victor Nikiforov _ , Yuuri had been unable to say.  It seemed too unreal, and it was just apology flowers anyway.  He had no right to pretend to be actually taking flowers to Victor Nikiforov.

“That’s okay, the little heart in the ribbon’s a nice touch, I’m sure he’ll love them,” she had said before Yuuri shuffled out into the rain.

The rain drops grew larger as Yuuri navigated the busy main street.  By the time he reached the intersection where his and Victor’s street branched off, the rain pelted down on him.  He held the roses to his chest and covered them with one arm as he jogged down the sidewalk.    


He finally reached Victor’s apartment building to find the entrance locked.

Of course it was locked.  It was an upscale apartment; what upscale apartment didn’t have an advanced electronic security system?

The rain pelted Yuuri’s head and shoulders, soaking through his shoes, numbingly cold. 

Just as he turned around to toss the flowers in the bushes and trudge back across the street defeated, an elderly lady with an umbrella beeped the glass paneled door open and held it for Yuuri.  She said something to him in Russian that Yuuri couldn’t hope to catch with the rain pelting around him and the cars on the street.  He yelled  _ spasibo _ behind him as he set off for the stairs.

Puddles of water collected beneath his feet as he trudged up the marble staircase.  A few red petals fell out of the bouquet just as he reached the third floor.  He knew that everything was ruined, but once he had actually made it into the building he was determined to see his effort through to the end.

He walked up to the only door on the entire floor.  The dark wooden panels and golden doorknob stood in stark contrast to the marbled floor and white washed walls of the hallway.  His hand shook as he knocked once, twice, water dripping from the sleeve of his jacket.

Then, he waited.

In the quiet of the hallway, he could make out the sounds of a voice speaking in another language, not Russian, English, or Japanese.  The voice cut off abruptly.

The door clicked then swung away from Yuuri in one motion, revealing Victor, his phone in one hand, silver hair disheveled in the slightest.  Faint red circles surrounded his eyes, causing the blue in them to brighten.  He stood in silence, face emotionless, with his other hand remaining on the door.

Yuuri tried to force himself to speak.  Just one  _ I’m sorry _ would have been better than nothing, but not a single word would pull out of his mouth.  He stood frozen, the red roses in his hand dripping onto the floor and water collecting behind his glasses from his hair.

Victor’s eyes flicked toward the roses then back to Yuuri, burning into him, bright and glowing.

Then, he slammed the door shut.

The sound reverberated through the polished hallway around Yuuri.  Rose petals puffed into the air then drifted to the floor, littering it with red pinpricks.  The puddle of rainwater beneath Yuuri’s feet continued to expand.

Even after Yuuri let his hand that held the roses fall, his arm continued to shake.  The water that had collected in the petals poured out of the flowers as he held them upside down.  He stepped out of the puddle that had collected in front of Victor’s door and began to sop down the hallway.  He made it all the way to the top of the stairs before he crumbled, sinking to the top step and burying his head in his knees.    


No wonder Victor was angry with him.  It felt terrible to have the door slammed in his face.

Yuuri laughed bitterly through his knees.  He had made it all the way to Russia and managed to mess everything up within two weeks.  Maybe he really should retire.  It wouldn’t take much for Coach Feltsman to send him home anyway.  He could go home, see his parents and Mari, work at the onsen, relax, let all of his skills that he had spent years learning go to waste, fester in his beloved hometown until he hated it.    


That was Yuuri’s curse through and through, his inability to feel content with where he was in life.  He didn’t feel like he was really living unless he was pushing himself to the limit.  Why was he in Russia?  He hated it.  He had hated it since he arrived.  Why was he making himself do this?  Why couldn’t he just let himself be happy?

Steps tapped behind him on the polished floor, causing Yuuri to jump to his feet and nearly tumble down the stairs, even with the roses still wrapped tightly in his hand.  When he regained his balance, he saw Victor standing in front of him.

“I, ah . . . changed my mind,” Victor said.  He didn’t look at Yuuri, but rather, focused on a spot near the ceiling behind his head.  “You can come in and dry off, at least.”  His eyes briefly flicked down to Yuuri’s then continued on to the floor.

“T-Thank you,” Yuuri managed to respond, his voice cracking.

Victor walked ahead of him and held the door open as Yuuri stepped through.  

Yuuri stood awkwardly still for a few minutes, not wanting to ruin Victor’s sleek wooden floors with his soaked shoes.  His eyes immediately found the large window with the hearts taped to the inside.

“Did you like them?”  Victor had caught Yuuri staring.  He looked gorgeous, even in sweats and a t-shirt.  “The hearts, did you like them?” he repeated.

“Y-Yeah, I liked them.”  Yuuri had to look to the floor to avoid Victor’s eyes. “I liked them a lot.”

Rainwater continued to drip off of Yuuri, splashing against the floor. He needed to do . . . something.  “I was, you know – the flower shop, and – clouds.”  Yuuri waved his hand vaguely above his head.  “But I didn’t think it would actually rain, I mean it’s cold enough to snow, and then it did, then the door wouldn’t open, but this lady – and you – you – I didn’t – I’m just – I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry, and I wanted to give you these roses, but you probably don’t want them anymore.”  Yuuri adjusted his grip around the crumbled bouquet, still held upside down.

“You’re sorry?”  Victor’s face didn’t show one hint of emotion. Yuuri had seen this face during interviews before, cold as ice.  But, his voice didn’t have any force behind it, sad, resigned. 

Victor walked slowly, almost limping, Yuuri realized, to the kitchen, pausing for a second near the window.  “Would you like some tea?” he asked.

“Uhh . . .” Yuuri’s eyes darted around the room, focusing on the hearts, the marble countertop, stainless steel stove, shining wood floors, “I . . yes – no, I.  I just . . . I’m sorry,” he finished, his voice fading on the last word.  He stood silently staring at the floor, water dripping around him.  He should have never come across the street.  He just wanted to go home and curl up under his green blanket and never crawl out again.

He felt a warm pressure on his fingers.  Then, Victor was prying his fingers from around the roses, Victor’s hands smooth and cold as they had been on his cheek that day at practice.  Yuuri uncurled his fingers slowly, they were painfully cold and shriveled from the rain.  A single scratch ran red and irritated down his index finger where the florist had failed to snip a stray thorn.

After freeing the roses from Yuuri’s hand, Victor held them up.  “They’re red,” he said, his blue eyes directly on Yuuri.

“Yeah, they’re red.” 

Victor glanced toward the roses again, silently observing them.  “Okay,” he said, “I’ll start brewing the tea then.”  He pulled a vase out of a cabinet for the roses, arranging them briefly on the kitchen counter.

Victor’s dog – Makkachin, Yuuri recognized from so many of Victor’s interviews – wandered out of the dark hallway in front of Yuuri, yawning and stretching her legs.  She walked over to Victor, whining when he responded minimally, busy with the roses, then wandered towards Yuuri, lapping the water off his shoes.

“Makkachin, no.  You know better than that.”  Victor called.

“No, it’s fine. She seems really sweet,” Yuuri said, bending down to pat Makkachin’s head.    


Victor didn’t respond.  Instead, he stood back and surveyed the roses before abruptly turning and shuffling down the hallway, only to return moments later holding a towel.  “You can dry off in the bathroom while the tea brews.  There’s a set of clean clothes in there for you as well.”

Yuuri gingerly grabbed the plush, white towel and sopped to the bathroom that Victor pointed to as quickly as possible.  Makkachin followed him, whining when he closed the door between them.  He heard Victor call her back to the kitchen.

He changed into the set of blue sweats that Victor had laid out for him.  They were large for Yuuri, the top hanging around his shoulders and the bottoms sagging at his hips, but they felt much better than his wet clothes.  They smelled nice, fresh with a light floral fragrance.  He tried not to think too much about the fact that he was wearing Victor Nikiforov’s actual clothes. He needed to have his blush under control before he stepped out again. 

The bathroom itself was huge, wood paneling interspersed with gray marble.  A large walk-in rain shower stood at the center of the room, open on all sides.  Yuuri had never seen anything like it.

When he returned to the kitchen, the bouquet of roses stood in a crystal vase on the counter.  Victor sat at the glass table, head propped in one hand while he stared out the window towards the gray street, Makkachin lying beside his feet. 

He turned towards Yuuri.  “You look better,” he said, his expression no longer blank but soft and something sad, his eyes bleary and tired.

“I’m sorry.  I really am sorry.”  The words broke out of Yuuri’s mouth.  There was no fixing this, was there?

“I know.”  No there really wasn’t.  Victor hadn’t moved from his seat at the table, under the broken heart.  The light behind him illuminated his light hair and smooth features.    


How on earth had Yuuri managed to upset someone like Victor?  He seemed impermeable, unaffected by the commoners of the world.  Yuuri had worked so long just to be noticed by Victor, but never like this.  Seeing Victor in that chair, tired and weak, Yuuri hated it, all of it.  He just needed to leave.

“I guess I’ll be going then,” Yuuri said, “I’ll return the sweats to you at practice if that’s okay.”

“What about the tea?”  Victor’s gaze refocused on him from where he had been gazing at the roses across the kitchen.  “If you leave now, you’ll just be soaked again outside.  Wait until the rain lets up at least.”

So, Yuuri found himself sinking into a lush leather armchair in front of the fire at the center of Victor’s open-spread apartment, sipping a cup of hot tea, Makkachin lying across his feet.

“Thank you,” Yuuri said as Victor hung his clothes up to dry, his limp even more pronounced as he shuffled towards the sofa. 

Just as he passed by Yuuri’s chair, he tripped over Makkachin.  Yuuri jumped to his knees in the chair, partially catching Victor beneath his arms to prevent him from falling on Makkachin, who scurried onto the couch.

As soon as Victor regained his footing, Yuuri dropped his hands.  But, for just the briefest moment he had felt Victor’s hair brush past his temple and felt his breath hovering over his shoulder.  “Are you – are you hurt, Victor?” he asked.

Victor crawled under a sherpa blanket on the couch beside Makkachin.

“I bruised my leg, that’s all.  I’ve already had it checked out.”  He held his head down while he answered, supposedly watching the steam rise from his tea on the coffee table.

“But, you haven’t even been at practice.”

“No, I just went to practice while no one was there.”

Yuuri’s stomach sank at the words.  “I’m sorry,” he said for the hundredth time.

“No, it’s not your fault that I was hur-“

“No, it really was, and I’m sorry.  That’s why I came.  To apologize.”  Yuuri sat up from his chair, determined to show Victor his sincerity.

Victor remained silent for a moment, blankness covering his face again.  “That’s all?” he asked.

“Yes,” Yuuri answered with as much sincerity as he could muster.

The rain pattered against the windows in the ensuing silence, continuing to drench the streets.

“Okay,” Victor said, quietly from beneath his blanket, “why don’t we watch a movie while the rain lets up?”  He stood slowly, then reclaimed his blanket on the sofa before flicking on the TV.

They watched the screen flicker for a while.  Yuuri leaned into his chair, finally able to relax.  Actually speaking with Victor had released more of his internal tension than he had expected.  He sank farther into the lush chair, at one point curled up with Makkachin, until everything faded from his mind.

♥

Yuuri jolted awake to complete darkness.

He wasn’t in his bed.  He should have been in his bed.  Instead, a cushion supported his back and head.  When he flung his arms out, he found an armrest, on a chair, a rather large chair.

A streak of moonlight illuminated shiny wooden floors across from where he was sitting.

He must have fallen asleep in Victor’s apartment.  In Victor’s chair.  In Victor’s clothes.

That – was not good.

He squinted, attempting to make out anything else in the dark room, but it was hopeless without his glasses.  He patted his hands around the chair, frantically searching for his glasses, only to hear them rattle to the floor.  He leaned out of the chair to retrieve them and finally return them to their rightful place over his nose.

The other features of the room came into focus, just barely visible in the glow from the bright streak of moonlight he had seen earlier.  The television had been switched off, as had all the lights in the entire apartment.  Yuuri reasoned that Victor must have gone to bed hours before, leaving Yuuri asleep in his chair.  Why hadn’t he told Yuuri to go home?  Yuuri wondered if he should slip out while he was awake or wait until morning so he might not freeze to death.  Victor’s clothes felt warm and loose.  How was he supposed to return them?

All Yuuri’s rational thoughts stopped when he spotted the figure curled up on the couch, silver hair glowing faintly in the moonlight, highlighting the tip of his nose and the structure of one of his cheeks.

Victor was asleep.

Yuuri could actually see what a sleeping Victor Nikiforov looked like; it wasn’t what he had expected.  Victor did not sleep like a model from a magazine spread.  His mouth hung open, half of it tossed into shadows, his arms and legs curled around himself, and he shivered without waking.  Russia was cold, even with the central heating in Victor’s apartment.

He only had a thin blanket draped over his legs and Makkachin propped beside him, one hand draped through her fur.

Yuuri decided that it was time for him to leave after all.  He felt like he was intruding on a side of Victor that no one ever saw, something reserved for a family member or a lover.

He rose from his chair and dragged the fluffy blanket that he had apparently been sleeping under to the couch to drape over Victor.  Yuuri tucked the edges under Victor’s legs, making sure not to disturb Makkachin.  His hands trembled as he did so; it was the closest that he would ever probably be to touching Victor.

When Victor’s shivers had satisfactorily diminished, Yuuri donned his mostly dry jacket and shoes, leaving his other wet clothes behind, unlocked the door, and stepped outside.

Victor slept on quietly and steadily.  Yuuri glimpsed the rhythm of his breathing one last time before he closed the door.

♥

The next morning, Yuuri was the first skater to arrive at practice.  He shouldered the duty of unlocking the door and warming up the lights.  Coach Feltsman arrived with a gruff greeting, then the other skaters trickled in, one by one.  Victor was the last to arrive, bundled under a long charcoal coat.  Mila greeted him with a hug, Georgi with a wave from the ice, and the other Yuri with a glower.  Yuuri just watched him, wondering if that day would be any different than the others.

Victor didn’t spare Yuuri a glance.  Instead, he laced on his skates and stepped on the ice, even though it wasn’t his time to skate.  No one stopped him.

For the first time since he had been in St. Petersburg, Yuuri actually watched Victor skate.  He flowed around the ice, into and out of it, even without any jumps – Yuuri assumed to spare his leg.  It was breathtaking yet relaxing to watch him skate, almost nostalgic in a way.  Victor pulled out of a scratch spin, perfectly controlled.  It reminded Yuuri of why he had first wanted to become a skater.

Victor’s face, though, showed little emotion.  It appeared just as perfect and untouchable as the rest of him.  The younger Yuri yelled fast and scathing Russian at him from the boards.  Yuuri couldn’t quite catch the words.  Victor’s concentration didn’t break in the slightest, his face expressionless as ever, blue eyes determined.

As Victor pulled out of another spin, Yuuri felt those blue eyes land, for just a moment, on him . . . maybe, it was so fast that he found it difficult to tell.

By the end of his own practice, Yuuri was winded, lacking the energy to do anything more than push through the doors and out of the rink.  Coach Feltsman had scheduled him for two ice times that day, giving him time to work the quad Salchow into his free skate properly.  He stepped outside expecting to be greeted by an icy wall of wind.  Instead, Victor stood in the afternoon sunlight, facing the river, with half a smile on his face.    


It suited him, the sunlight did.    


He turned.

“Let’s walk home together,” he said.

♥

Yuuri kept his eyes trained on the railing of the bridge as they began to cross the Neva.  He most certainly did not allow himself to watch Victor’s hair blow away from his forehead in the cold wind, revealing a thin line crevassing his skin there.   

Traffic stormed and waves chopped across the river as they passed above it in silence.       

Yuuri tried to force himself to say something – anything, but he couldn’t, drowned out by the traffic and the wind.  He wondered if they would walk all the way to their street without saying anything.  Dread built in the back of his mind with every step.  He had done it before, missed so many opportunities by doing nothing, missed so many chances to know Victor.        

They crossed the halfway point of the bridge, marked by a lookout point over the river, and Yuuri reached his limit.      

He pulled the glove off his hand and reached for the shoulder of Victor’s coat, tugging the fabric quick and sharp.       

Victor turned to face him, his hair and scarf blowing wildly around him, his ears flushed from the cold.       

“Yuuri?”  The words were nearly lost in the wind.       

Yuuri willed himself to speak, the words falling hoarse, burning in his throat.  “I’ve wanted to talk to you.”       

“I –“  Victor adjusted his scarf.  “I wanted – no –“ His eyes flitted to each side before refocusing on Yuuri, widening.  He reached out his hand and brushed something off of Yuuri’s face.  It felt wet.  A tear, where his eyes had begun to water.  The gesture left Yuuri blinking, his eyes watering more profusely.  “You left last night,” Victor said.      

“I didn’t want to impose.”    

“I wanted you to stay.”      

Oh.  Victor wanted him to stay.  That . . . that didn’t–  

“Makkachin liked you a lot.”  Victor’s gaze returned to the clouds just as they obscured the sun, throwing St. Petersburg into dull grays again.       

“I liked Makkachin too.  I, uh, like dogs.”       

Victor . . . Victor laughed.  Yuuri glanced up to see a smile flickering on his lips.       

“I like dogs too.”  He turned and winked at Yuuri.       

Yuuri snapped his gaze back to the pavement in front of them as they resumed their walk, his face and neck growing unbearably warm beneath his scarf.  Yuuri glanced quickly to his side to observe Victor.  His eyes fixed on the waves in the river, cutting a stunning figure in his dark gray coat.  Yuuri used to have a poster of him in a similar coat.      

“You know, gray doesn’t suit you.  I liked your blue coat better.”  Yuuri clapped his hand over his mouth when he realized that he had said the words out loud.  He really couldn’t figure out what was wrong with himself.  He had finally seemed to find a breakthrough with Victor and . . .      

“It’s charcoal, not gray, and at least I don’t look like a blueberry.” Victor glanced over his shoulder, smiling.     

Yuuri bit his lip.  Victor wasn’t upset?  It was okay.  “I look like a blueberry?”     

“A little,” Victor said, his smile growing wider, beautiful in the bleak light around them.  “But that’s not a bad thing.  Blueberries are delicious.”      

Yuuri burrowed into his scarf as his face grew impossibly warmer.  When he looked up again, Victor was staring at him, smile nearly vanished but his eyes, clear and kind.  He smiled again when he noticed Yuuri looking at him and said something about the weather.  He moved closer to Yuuri as they trekked down the sidewalk, his nose turning red in the cold, his breath white in the air.     

And, as they stepped off the bridge, Yuuri realized that he wasn’t alone anymore.  Victor wanted to talk to him.  He wanted to be there with Yuuri.  Yuuri felt the deathgrip of thoughts that had held him for weeks loosen ever so slightly.  He played the single tear that slipped beneath his glasses off for the bitter wind.      

For the first time since he had been in St. Petersburg, he noticed the sparkling ice covering the trees, the intricate details woven into the Winter Palace.  He noticed how wide the river was behind them.       

“So, do you have a dog?”       

“Ye- no, I don’t, not anymore. ”  Yuuri had yet to say the words out loud.  “He died.”  He let them blow through him with the wind, whipping around the corners of the sandstone buildings.            
“Oh, I’m sorry.  I don’t know what I –“       

“My mom called me during the Grand Prix Final to tell me.”  Yuuri’s eyes watered again, even though the wind hadn’t gotten any colder.   He ran a glove under his glasses.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, uh, dump that on you.”       

“No, I don’t know what I would do if Makkachin . . .”       

They had stopped walking at some point, only a block or two away from their street.  A few icy branches spread over their heads at the border of the park.  A single large snowflake fell onto the shoulder of Victor’s jacket.  Three more snowflakes fell into his hair, his nose, his gray eyelashes.  Yuuri was standing close enough to him to see each one.       

“So, that’s what happened after your short was so stunning.”  More snowflakes fell onto Victor’s arms, his shoes.       

Yuuri reached out to brush some of the snow off his shoulder, but he found he couldn’t stop.  He let the momentum carry him forward until his head rested on Victor’s shoulder instead and his arms wound around his waist.       

A few moments passed, a few half seconds, in stillness, the wind sweeping around them.  Victor’s hands slid around Yuuri’s shoulders, and Yuuri felt Victor’s chest collapse as he sighed.         
  
“T-Thank you, Victor.”  Yuuri didn’t cry.  It was too cold, too much, but he could feel himself shaking.  To finally have something, anything after being so acutely alone for weeks.       

He pulled away after another moment, just a moment, and they began to walk again in silence, snowflakes drifting down on them.       

The pavement rested under a thin layer of snow by the time they reached their street.  They stood before the door to Yuuri’s red brick building.  Victor would need to cross the street to reach his own.  The snow fell heavy around him as a smile crinkled his eyes, gray beneath the clouds.       

“Yuuri, call me, please.  Okay?”  He reached for Yuuri’s hand, one glove to another, and squeezed.      

“Okay.”     

“I-I’ll see you tomorrow?”  A snowflake brushed off the top of Victor’s nose.       

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”       

Another smile crinkled Victor’s eyes before he released Yuuri’s hand, fading into the thick snow as he crossed the street.  Yuuri stood on the sidewalk looking, even after the door had closed behind Victor.       

He clenched and unclenched his hands, his breath puffing into the air before him, trying to control his thoughts, restrain the hope that had found him.       

He pushed in the door to the drafty stairway and ascended the stairs for the night.

♥       

The next day, Victor waved at Yuuri as he walked into the rink.    


Yuuri waved back.    


And, Victor actually smiled at Yuuri while he was skating.       

Yuuri watched him in wonder.  Victor Nikiforov was smiling at him while skating.       

“Yuuri, you have conditioning first,” Yakov called.  Yuuri came to himself, gripping the boards where he must have been standing for half an hour, his gaze fixed on Victor.       

Between ice times, Victor walked up to Yuuri to show him a new photo of Makkachin from that morning of her nosing into Victor’s shoe.  They were only able to chat for a few minutes before Yakov forced Yuuri to begin skating, but it was the first time since Yuuri had been training there that he actively enjoyed practicing.  Victor talked to him and smiled at him, and the rest of the world seemed to fall away a little bit.       

Victor asked to stay to watch him skate.  The gesture brought the reality of how coldly Yuuri had treated Victor.  He shivered, but Victor reached out, rubbed the side of his arm, smiled at him.    


That day, Victor’s presence calmed him.  Yuuri landed his Salchow on nearly every attempt, Victor cheering for him each time.  He wondered briefly what it would feel like to land a flip in his program instead.    


After Yakov finished his critique for the day, Victor held out his arms, and Yuuri fell into them, albeit slowly, tentatively.       

“Finally, idiot,” Yuri said as he flew by them on the ice.       

“Say that when you land a quad flip, Yura,” Victor called.       

“Shut up, Victor!”       

Yuuri had to bury his smile beneath his hand.       

Victor stayed behind at the rink to finish his conditioning for the day, so Yuuri walked home alone.       

A few snowflakes continued to fall from the sky, but the sun was beginning to peek out from behind the clouds, dying the waters of the Neva a sparkling blue.       

Yuuri passed by the small takeout restaurant as he walked and the flowershop on his way to the historic district.  He paused as he approached a block of the sidewalk covered in flecks of light.  The jewelry displayed in the store window there sparkled in the young sunlight.  Diamonds hung among the silver and gold displays.  Yuuri’s eyes were drawn to the golden jewelry, the sun reflecting particularly brightly off a set of golden wedding rings.  Upon closer inspection, a single snowflake appeared to be engraved into the pair.       

All the sparkling lights were mesmerizing.  Yuuri’s mind flashed briefly back to his last conversation with Phichit.  He stared at the rings for a few more minutes.       

Yuuri wasn’t normally an impulse buyer.  Most of the time, he didn’t buy anything at all.  But, it was all just perfect, the sunlight, the snowflake, the gold.       

Yuuri took a deep breath and walked in the door.       

Probably the dumbest, least rational thing he had ever done.       

When he walked back out, a small velvet box brushing against his leg in his pocket, the sun had fallen behind the clouds again.      

He had never spent that much money on one item in his life.  He was so dumb.  He wondered if he could still return them.      

He fished the box out of his pocket as he continued walking and opened it, the sparkling gold rings flashing blind spots into his vision.       

“Yuuuuriiiii!”       

Yuuri jumped and stuffed the box into his pocket.  At the rate his heart was beating, he thought he might pass out on the sidewalk.       

“You walk pretty slow, you know,”  Victor said as he jogged up behind Yuuri.      

“I got, uh, distracted on the way home.”  Yuuri covered his pocket with his hand.       

Victor stared at the clouds in the sky as they walked, a sudden smile flitted over his face.       

“Yuuri!”  He grabbed Yuuri by the shoulders, halting their progress.  “Let’s not go home!”      

“Huh? . . . But I need to drop off my stuff.”  He gestured to his backpack and skating bag – not his pocket.  He definitely wasn’t thinking of burying the small box in his apartment where no one would ever find it.       

“Hmmm.”  Victor held one finger to his lips.  “It’s fine, we’ll just take it with us.  There’s somewhere I want to take you.”       

“But, uh, my apartment’s just across the street and-“       

“Please, Yuuri.”  Victor’s smile really was quite blinding, and heart shaped.  His eyes could be so blue, almost as blue as the Neva in the sunlight.       

“Okay,” Yuuri said, the box burning in his pocket.


	3. All at once am I several stories high

_Two nights before:_

Yuuri Katsuki was asleep in Victor’s apartment.          

Victor had to admit that he was surprised.          

He had never expected to see Yuuri asleep.  Or Yuuri soaked in rainwater.  Or Yuuri with flowers.         

Yuuri’s neck rested against the back of the armchair at an odd angle, probably not the best if he planned to practice the next day.  One of his legs hung off the chair, the other curled beneath him, his glasses askew over his nose.         

Victor watched as his breaths lengthened, as his head fell further into the chair.          

Victor tried to settle his thoughts.  He had tried to skate it out and had hurt himself in the process.  He had been hurt, then he had been angry, then . . . then, he didn’t know.            

Yuuri had apologized.  For leaving him, avoiding him, for slamming the door. 

Victor felt selfish for wanting more.         

Yuuri shifted, drawing his leg towards him, curling in on himself, before settling once more. He looked cold.  Victor pulled the blanket off the couch and ventured closer to drape it over him, his leg aching a bit under the pressure.  He wondered if he should remove Yuuri’s glasses where they were smushed halfway under his hair.  He slid gently off Yuuri’s nose and folded them on one of the chair arms.          

Yuuri looked so pretty while he slept.  The lines of worry, the circles beneath his eyes, smoothed away.  His hair fell dark and thick over his ears.  His chest rose and collapsed smoothly, quietly.          

Victor felt it – that he would never forget that night.  It would be one of those memories that he revisited again when he needed to feel like he was really living.          

He found his warm spot again on the couch beside Makkachin.         

He needed to lie down, prepare for practice the next day, but he couldn’t force himself to move from the couch.  Yuuri was right there, asleep.          

Victor sunk further into the cushion behind him.

♥

_Present:_          

“You’re driving?”        

Victor unlocked the doors to his car with a beep.  “How else did you think we would get there?”         

“I don’t know, walk?”        

“It’s too far to walk.”         

“Where are we going?”        

“It’s a surprise, Yuuri.  A surprise!”         

They pulled out of the garage behind Victor’s building and cut across a snow dusted St. Petersburg, sparkling under the clear sky.  Yuuri sat nearly silent beside him, his face away from Victor, staring out the window.  What was he seeing?    
  
Victor’s hand twitched over the gear shift.  He wanted to reach over and pull Yuuri into his side.  He gripped the leather beneath his palm tighter and redirected his gaze to the road.        

They crossed a few of the many bridges that crossed the city before they reached the island that Victor had in mind.  The trees closed in around them, weighed down with snow.  Emerging from the trees, Victor spotted the snow-drenched sand of his favorite beach across the river.  He coasted until he found a parking place beside it.         

Victor’s hands shook as he opened his car door, not from fear but excitement.  He had never taken anyone on a tour of the city before.         

The sunlight glanced across Yuuri’s hair as they made their way past the fountains and to the small sanded bank along the river.  They stepped around patches of snow scattered across the sand as they went along.         

Yuuri maintained a distance just out of arm’s reach as they walked.  Victor restrained himself from stepping closer, the memory of Yuuri’s arms around his shoulders recalled by the warmth of the sun.          

Victor had visited the small beach many times in his childhood.  As a teen, he had sought it out as a place to be alone, to think, when he had nowhere else to run.         

Closer to the river, Yuuri knelt, running a handful of the dark polluted sand through his fingers.  His glasses flashed beneath the sun when he looked towards Victor.          

“So, what are we doing here?” he asked.         

The city across the water continued moving, busy as ever.  To the left, the trees on Yelagin Island glistened beneath the snow.  Two gulls flew low overhead, feathers ruffling in the chilling wind.          

“This is my favorite beach.  I thought it would be nice.”          

“It’s cold.”  Yuuri shivered behind his glasses, the wind blowing parts in his hair.         

“Well, we are in Russia.  It will probably never be warm by your standards.”  A gust of wind blew Victor’s hair over his mouth and nose, sending him swatting and puttering.          

Yuuri smiled at him as he patted his hair into a publicly acceptable form again.         

“No, it might never be warm, but I think I’m adjusting,” Yuuri said as he stood, his smile smaller.  He took one step closer towards Victor, his fists clenching as he did so, his shoe marring a patch of snow.  “I’m –“  He paused, drawing in a breath.  “Sometimes, it’s just – it’s hard for me.”  His eyes darted to the ground, to the dirtied snow beneath his shoes.         

“Yuuri.”  His head shot up as Victor said his name.  “I think I –“  Yuuri’s eyes had grown wide and dark behind his glasses, not unlike the night at the banquet.  “I think I – don’t know if I should compete again next year.”  Victor didn’t know why he chose that time to tell Yuuri, to throw another weight on him when he had enough of his own.  “I’ve been, I don’t know what I’ve been, but it hasn’t been good.”          

“Oh.”  Yuuri’s gaze snapped to the ground again.  He stepped closer to the water, away from Victor, his arms wrapped into his blue coat.          

It looked like he hated the beach.         

Victor must have been wrong to take him there, to tell him his thoughts.  Why couldn’t he get it right?  Why had he ruined it?          

The wind ruffled the hair off the back of Yuuri’s neck as he watched the water.          

“I don’t want to go home anymore,” he said, and the cold wind blew through Victor’s heart too.  Yuuri’s shoulders shook.         

Was he crying?        

That wasn’t good.  Victor didn’t know what to do with crying people.  He barely knew what to do with a crying Makkachin.         

“Sorry.”  Yuuri said, still not looking at Victor, rubbing his hands over his face.  “You just surprised me again.”          

Yuuri turned to him, his eyes red but the tears gone.          

“I’ve just –“ Victor drew in a steadying breath as Yuuri’s raw expression hit him.  “I think I could keep skating for you.  Do you want me to keep competing?”          

“Oh.”  Yuuri’s hands clenched again.  “I’ve always looked up to you.”  His eyes flickered upward for a moment.  The revelation didn’t come as a surprise to Victor.  He had heard similar words many times before.  “I - think um, I’ll be here with you, no matter what you decide.  I almost retired this year too. It was my own decision to continue.”  He looked directly into Victor’s eyes, eyebrows furrowed, before he glanced away, shoulders sagging.  “I’d just like you to be here with me.”      

Such a simple request, but Yuuri’s words were more comforting than any Victor had heard in a long time.  “Of course, Yuuri.”         

Yuuri rubbed one of his hands under his eye again, but when he looked up, he was smiling.          

“Thank you,” he said, his voice soft and quiet.  He reached out with gloved fingers and wrapped them around Victor’s hand.  His touch was soft, light, just as his arms had been tight and strong.

♥          

They crossed the bridge to Yelagin Island and walked along the path under the snow-laced trees.  The island was quiet except for Yuuri’s occasional chuckles and the voices of a few other pedestrians, the city buzzing at them from across the water.          

Victor didn’t let go of Yuuri’s hand.          

He showed Yuuri where he used to ride his bike and his favorite patch of grass along the path to sit by in the summer.  Yuuri asked about the local birds and trees that he had never seen before.        

  

They walked further, cutting through the center of the island.  Drops of melting snow pattered the walkway before them. The patches of sun that made their way through the branches lit up the gold undertones in Yuuri’s eyes.          

At the end of the path, they reached the large outdoor skating rink, spanning what in the summer would have been a clearing crossed with sidewalks, lightly dusted with snow.  A few couples and many children circled the rink, the colors of their coats blurring together.          

Victor rented a pair of skates for himself and Yuuri.          

“Skating? Just after we finished practice?”  Yuuri smiled as he grabbed his pair of skates and sat down to lace them.          

“Of course.”          

Yuuri peered inside one of the boots, crinkling his nose.  “They smell.”          

Victor chuckled.  “Well, my skates smell too so . . .”          

Yuuri laughed.  He really laughed.  Victor tried to imprint the sound into his eardrums.            

“Victor,” Yuuri said, softening the _r_ at the end of his name, “you smell like a giant flower.”          

Victor felt his cheeks heat, just a little.  “And how would I smell like that?”         

“I don’t know.”  Yuuri stood, a light flush on his cheeks, his skates fastened.  “You tell me.”          

Victor stepped onto the snow dusted rink, holding out his hand for Yuuri.

  

Yuuri paused before he took it, his smile momentarily falling.  He was quiet as they skated the first lap around the rink, hand in hand.  He moved more fluidly with each cut of their blades over the ice.  He didn’t look at Victor, always in front of them or towards the trees, his eyes sparkling from the side.         

His hand was warm and firm in Victor’s, though.  His voice carried smooth but strong when he began to hum.  After a few notes, Victor recognized “Stammi Vicino.”         

And that was what did it for him.         

The song about his search for an escape from the loneliness that had consumed him.  And, he wasn’t lonely so long as Yuuri skated beside him, a light flush on his cheeks and lips.       

Victor hummed the next few notes with Yuuri, even though his voice was admittedly less in key.  He lost count of how many times they circled the rink or when they stopped humming and began singing along with the music streaming out of the speakers above their heads.  Yuuri tried skating figures around the other people on the ice, handing his glasses to Victor and returning after a few near misses with some of the children.          

By the time they finished skating, Victor’s feet burned and his fingers ached from the cold.  Yuuri seemed to be in a similar state, sinking his flushed cheeks and nose into the collar of his coat.  Their skates did indeed smell when they removed them.  Victor watched Yuuri’s nose crinkle again and may or may not have snapped a picture.          

They found Victor’s car nestled beside the small beach just as the sun began to set.  Yuuri dozed off in the passenger seat during the short ride home, his head propped between his seatbelt and the back of his seat.  He roused slowly when Victor shook his shoulder and nearly tipped over sideways when he collected his skating bag from the trunk.  Victor walked him out to the street.         

A layer of snow remained on the pavement, the street sheltered from the sun by the tall buildings.  Yuuri paused a moment before he stepped off the sidewalk and looked back at Victor, still blinking the sleep from his eyes.         

Victor realized that he would be alone again that night.          

He smiled and waved despite the ache in the pit of his stomach.  He would see Yuuri again the next day, and Makkachin would be waiting on her dinner.          

Yuuri smiled a bit, then stepped onto the street, his shoes leaving hollows in the snow as he crossed to the other side.          

Victor watched him fiddle with the door handle to his building, then drop his bag.  He glanced back again, his eyes locking on Victor.          

He kicked his bag inside and slammed the door to before turning and running towards Victor’s side of the street again.          

He must have changed his mind.         

Victor could already feel him running into his arms – that is before he watched Yuuri trip as he stepped down from the sidewalk and land flat on his face in the snow on the side of the road.          

“Yuuri!”  Victor cleared the distance between them in a few seconds.  He helped Yuuri sit up, seemingly unharmed except for a scratch on his cheek.  He lifted Yuuri’s glasses out of the snow and handed them to him.  He also picked up a small black box that must have fallen out of Yuuri’s pocket.         

A small black velvet box.          

“Wait,” Yuuri called, “I just bought that today and . . .”  His voice faded as his face turned the deepest shade of red that Victor had yet to witness.          

Oh.          

Yuuri had bought a supposed ring for someone else.          

He didn’t seem like the kind of person, though, to go on a date with Victor while he was with someone else.  Maybe, Yuuri didn’t think their date was a date?  Victor had never actually said the word “date.”  Maybe, he had merely misjudged the situation entirely.         

Yuuri was still staring at him, face red, eyes wide.  He needed to say something.  They really needed to move out of the road.          

“I’m sorry,” Victor decided on.  Maybe, Yuuri had felt forced to go on the date with him as some sort of apology.  “I didn’t realize you were dating someone.”  He felt how stilted, formal the words came out.          

Yuuri’s eyes grew wider, if that was possible.  “No,” he said.  That was all.          

“Oh.”  What was Victor supposed to say to a single _no_?          

“No, it’s for you.”  Yuuri blinked as he said the words, his blush spreading to his ears, down his neck.         

That didn’t make any sense.  “For me?”          

“Yes . . . for you.”  Yuuri’s voice grew quiet, small.          

But, “I don’t understand.”          

“I don’t either.”          

“You bought it for me?”  He had to ask again, maybe he had misheard.          

“Yes.”          

“Can I –“ Victor swallowed thickly. “Can I open it?”  He stared at the box in his palm.  He must have been wrong about what was inside.          

Yuuri reached over into Victor’s hand and pried the lid back.          

Two golden rings sparkled in the pink and purple sunset.          

Two wedding rings.         

It didn’t make any sense, but Victor felt tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes.          

“Victor?”         

“ _Yes._ ”          

“I – Huh?”         

“Yes, I’ll marry you.”  Victor tackled Yuuri into the snow again, taking care to keep the box dry.  And, he meant it.  He could see himself married to Yuuri. It was what he had been imagining all along.  It didn’t matter that it had only been a week.          

Yuuri squirmed beneath him. “N-No – that’s not – I didn’t – well – I did – but –“          

“You don’t want to get married?”  Victor asked, pulling back.  He combed through his mind for other possible meanings of two golden rings.            

“No – Yes – it’s only been – uh –“  Yuuri stared at him, eyes blinking once, twice.  He adjusted his glasses.  “Of course I want to marry you.”          

Victor felt himself smiling more than making any conscious effort to do so.  Yuuri smiled up at him, their noses nearly touching.          

“So, now that we’re engaged, can I kiss you?”          

Yuuri inclined his head just slightly, and Victor closed the remaining distance between them.  It was much better than he had imagined during that month after the banquet, the smooth slide of Yuuri’s lips, the sound of his sighs, the softness of the skin just behind his ear and under his jaw.  Victor’s heart nearly beat out of his chest when Yuuri’s fingers threaded into his hair and pulled him further down.          

Victor let himself drown for a while – until a car horn blasted precariously close to his head.          

They scrambled onto the sidewalk, Yuuri shivering from lying in the snow for so long.  The sky had darkened to a bright lilac above them.          

They stood facing each other, silent.  Yuuri held the box in his hand, gold rings shining.  He lifted one out and reached for one of Victor’s hands, a question in his eyes.         

Victor caught his breath.          

The wind chilled his skin as Yuuri peeled away his glove, but the ring felt warm from Yuuri’s palm as it slipped onto his finger.  It fit perfectly.  How had Yuuri known his size?          

Yuuri held onto Victor’s hand, staring at it.  Victor stared as well, rendered silent, before he noticed the other ring remaining in the box.          

He plucked it away, warming it in his own palm, then slipped it over Yuuri’s finger as his hand trembled.         

They stood in silence, holding onto each other’s hands as the sunset peaked and began to fade.  A few cars passed them on the street.  The snow beneath their feet continued to melt.            
Victor realized that they were in the same position they had faced earlier.  They needed to separate.  Go home and rest for the night.  Feed Makkachin.          

Except none of that was going to happen by that point.          

Victor would just stay with Yuuri.  He couldn’t leave Makkachin alone for the night, though.         

“You like Makkachin, right?” he asked Yuuri.         

“Uh . . . yeah.”  Yuuri looked a little dazed, staring at their hands, the fingers of his other hand resting at the corner of his bottom lip, cheeks flushed a deep pink.          

“Okay, stay here.”  A patch of snow fell off the back of Yuuri’s arm.  He shivered.  “Well, not here, it’s too cold.  But, wait for me.  I’ll be back soon.”          

“Okay,” Yuuri answered.          

Victor left him with his fingers still pressed to his lip and crossed the street.  As soon as he opened the door to his apartment, Makkachin tackled him to the floor, then bounced to her empty golden food bowl, then back again.         

Victor grabbed a small bag of her food and her leash and promptly walked her across the street to Yuuri.          

She tackled Yuuri too, licking his glasses off his nose, when Victor opened the door to the brick building.  Yuuri laughed clear and bright, ruffling her fur.          

“Let’s go,” Victor announced once he calmed her a bit, allowing Yuuri to stand.          

“Where are we going this time?”         

“Your room, of course.”          

A deeper blush crept up Yuuri’s neck.  “Really?”          

“Please?  And Makka too?”          

Yuuri’s silent gaze turned to Makkachin then back to Victor.         

“Okay?”  A question, but his smile hadn’t left his lips.  He reached for Victor’s hand, his fingers cold from the snow, and led him to the stairs.          

The golden rings on their fingers glimmered even in the dim lights.  Victor rubbed his thumb over Yuuri’s ring and tried to convince himself that it was real.

♥          

Yuuri was asleep.         

His head rested warm on Victor’s chest, his arms wrapped around Victor’s waist.          

He had fallen asleep quickly amidst lingering kisses after he lay down with Victor in the small green bed.          

Victor, however, remained wide awake.  Too many things had happened that day.          

They had eaten leftovers in Yuuri’s kitchen with the green cabinets and the clashing teal table.  Victor had listened to Yuuri sing in the shower, his voice clear and surprisingly deep, before taking his own shower in the impossibly cramped bathroom.  Yuuri had given him some of his own sweats to sleep in.          

He loved Yuuri’s bed and his room, the entire apartment really.  It was charming in its own way.  He wondered if Yuuri would mind if he sold his own apartment and moved in.         

Victor removed his ring to examine it in the light from his phone.  Half of a snowflake shimmered on the inside, the other half supposedly engraved on Yuuri’s ring.  He returned the ring to his finger and held up his hand, fingers shaking slightly.      

He loved it.         

He may or may not have taken pictures of his ring and of Yuuri sleeping beside him.  He considered posting them to Instagram before deciding to first send them to Yura and Yakov instead.          

He threaded his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, turning into him and trying to calm his heart.          

Just as his eyes closed, his phone pinged with a new message.  From Yura.  
    

**Yura:** Thought you might want to see this  
**Yura:** [video]  
**Yura:** Don’t send it to anyone else  
        

Yura.  Lovely as always.  Victor hit play, prepared to watch some sort of cat video.          

Instead, Yuuri greeted him, gliding over the ice in practice clothes.  He circled the rink a few times before striking a pose at center ice, his head down.  No music accompanied him as he began to skate, reaching his arms into large sweeping arcs.          

Victor’s hand clenched around his phone when he recognized the program.          

No wonder Yuuri had been able to hum the tune while they skated.

Did he know what that program meant to Victor?  Did it mean the same to him?

The tears that Victor had held back earlier trickled down his cheeks.  Yuuri’s rendition of the program neared perfection.  His movements flowed more beautifully into one another than Victor had ever seen.  The jumps that Yuuri stumbled on during practice, he landed easily in the video.          

It had been a long time since Victor wished that he could skate like someone else.          

He covered his mouth with his hand as Yuuri slid into the final pose, his gaze upward.  He stared at the screen of his phone after the video ended, his entire frame shaking.         

Makkachin shuffled where she slept over his and Yuuri’s feet.  Yuuri roused a bit, sliding his hands up Victor’s back, warm and comforting.         

Victor unclenched his hand from around his phone and set it aside.  He may or may not have rubbed his tears into Yuuri’s hair, wrapping the old green blanket around their shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! I hope you had as much fun as I did! Please consider leaving a comment and kudos. They are always so encouraging. 
> 
> In case you're curious and haven't seen it before, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qtDwgQd8tTI) is a link to The Tale of Mr. Morton.
> 
> Again, thanks to [Faerie--kei](https://faerie--kei.tumblr.com/) and [Valiantmeasures](http://valiantmeasures.tumblr.com/) for their wonderful artwork!
> 
> And Happy Valentine's Day!


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